


Monstera deliciosa, or the consequences of taking very good care of your friend's (yes, friend, just admit it)  plants.

by Nemeris (Eris18)



Series: herbarum amicitiam [5]
Category: Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett
Genre: AND NONE OF YOU TOLD ME?!, And I guess tagging properly just ain't my thing, M/M, THERE'S A HOUSEPLANTS TAG?!, This is also sappy as hell, you were warned
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-06-27
Updated: 2019-06-27
Packaged: 2020-05-20 21:29:40
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,491
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19385011
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Eris18/pseuds/Nemeris
Summary: Crowley took off his glasses and pinched the bridge of his nose. He had survived the failed apocalypse, and yet somehow the results of entrusting the care of his plants to Aziraphale were more stressful.





	Monstera deliciosa, or the consequences of taking very good care of your friend's (yes, friend, just admit it)  plants.

Crowley should have remembered that asking Aziraphale for a favour was never a straightforward process. Whilst most would expect such things between ~~co-world savers~~ ~~eternal frenemies~~ ~~begrudging immortal co-conspirators~~ friends to be simple, it was times like this that made Crowley wish that he had asked Shadwell to help him out instead. Sure, it would involve threats of exorcism and a lot of useless finger pointing, but at least he wouldn’t now be dealing with... _this_. 

“...You...called it... _Orlando_?” Crowley asked, gazing at one of his many [swiss cheese plants](https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Monstera_deliciosa). It looked surprisingly luscious and healthy for something that hadn’t been yelled at for a week1. 

“It seemed appropriate,” Aziraphale replied. “Something about its personality.” 

Crowley took off his glasses and pinched the bridge of his nose. He had survived the failed apocalypse, and yet somehow the results of entrusting the care of his plants2 to Aziraphale were more stressful. 

Upon his return, Crowley had been reintroduced to the inhabitants of his botanarium. Said inhabitants apparently now had individual identities3. Aziraphale was either unaware of, or blithely ignoring, Crowley’s mild distress, as he continued listing off the names he had given various plants. 

“This one,” Aziraphale said, petting the leaf of a nearby [cornstalk dracaena](https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Dracaena_fragrans), “is called Fitzwilliam. He pretended not to like me at first, but I grew on him. Or, rather-” 

“ ** _Don’t_** ,” Crowley hissed, but it was too late. 

“- _he_ grew on _me_ ,” Aziraphale chuckled. 

Crowley flopped into his office throne, groaning. He didn’t need _this_. He hadn’t suffered _Ireland_ to come back to _puns_. Aziraphale carried on, completely ignoring the demon currently poured over the chair next to him. Much to Crowley’s annoyance, Aziraphale had apparently named _every single plant_ in Crowley’s flat. There was Rochester, Hester Worsley, Havisham, Renfield, Ophelia...Crowley stopped listening after that one4, preferring to slump further down into his chair, close his eyes, and pretend this wasn’t happening. 

Aziraphale’s voice faded into the background, lulling Crowley into what he would later deny was a mild catnap5. It took a few moments, therefore, for Crowley to realise that the other voice was no longer next to him; it was down the hallway, in the direction of Crowley’s bedroom. 

It is a known fact that Crowley has long legs. However, it should still be noted that he ran at quite some speed to catch up to Aziraphale; he skidded to a stop at his bedroom door6. He was about to ask what the Heaven was going on, but the sight in front of him made his jaw clamp shut. 

Aziraphale was carefully, and affectionately, misting the star moss on Crowley’s bedside table, gently neatening its leaves whilst whispering to it. 

“He’s home now,” Aziraphale was saying, “I know you’ve missed him. Truth be told, so did I. Anyway, I just thought I’d pop in and check up on you before I left.” 

Crowley smirked, about to tease Aziraphale with a drab quip, when Aziraphale turned around. Something in the angel’s expression made Crowley stop short. He looked...vulnerable. 

“You heard,” Aziraphale said, soft and nervous. “I...well, that is to say, I...” 

He opened his mouth; for once in his life, he was absolutely lost for words. Aziraphale shifted uncomfortably, but ultimately neither of them moved for what seemed like a long time. To an outsider, it would have looked like they were temporarily frozen, each staring at the other in far too open a way7. 

Crowley cleared his throat. 

“You, uh,” he hesitated for a moment, “...you didn’t give that one a name?” 

Aziraphale didn’t reply right away; his face seemed to be cycling through every available emotion at once, and none of them were helping him provide a response. Instead, he fiddled with his ring, turning it around on his finger absently. When he did speak, his voice was almost too soft for Crowley to hear. 

“It...” Aziraphale began. “...I just call it...’Crowley’s star moss’. Nothing else seemed appropriate, really. That one just... _is_ you-...yours?” 

Crowley didn’t know how to respond to that; if he was honest8, he hadn’t been expecting anything like _that_ to come from Aziraphale. And, well, if _he_ could do it... 

Crowley took off his glasses and stepped closer. 

“Aziraphale, I-” 

The Ineffable Plan would not allow him to finish this thought, however, as at that moment Crowley’s house phone rang, its shrill tone travelling down the corridor. Crowley swore under his breath and let his answering machine pick it up. Unfortunately, it was a business call9; he reluctantly stepped away, putting his glasses back on, and went to deal with whatever issue had come up. 

As he spoke on the phone, he knew he was distracted and rushing through the conversation. If the person on the other end noticed, they didn’t comment10. As soon as he could, Crowley hung up and went to find Aziraphale...who had not moved. 

And now they were, once again, staring at each other and not saying anything. 

“So,” Aziraphale asked, suddenly his usual self again. “How _was_ Ireland?” 

“St. _Patrick_ ,” Crowley hissed, as if that was a complete answer in itself. 

“Ah, yes,” Aziraphale said. “Odd chap, but very full of religious fervour. Especially [that whole thing about banishing all the sn](https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Saint_Patrick#Patrick_banishes_all_snakes_from_Ireland)...ah. I see.” 

“Everywhere felt... _wrong_ ,” Crowley complained. “Like...blessed, but _extra_?” 

“Yes, well,” Aziraphale said. “Banishment of a particular biological genus of fauna does tend to have long-lasting effects. ...How are you now?” 

Instead of answering, Crowley walked over to the star moss plant on his bedside table. 

“It looks...healthier than the others,” he said. 

Aziraphale gave a tight smile, coming to stand next to him. 

“It...well. I felt it warranted special attention,” he said. 

“I suppose...” Crowley said, “that I do treat this one differently.” 

Neither of them said anything further, unable to decide on what to say next. They were close enough that their shoulders were touching, both staring at this one plant. Crowley turned his head to look at Aziraphale. He swallowed a couple of times, to clear an imaginary blockage in his throat. 

“Thank you,” he said, “for looking after it.” 

Aziraphale smiled, his gaze not leaving the star moss. 

“Sometimes,” Aziraphale said, “we treat things differently for a reason.” 

Finally, he looked back at Crowley. Their eyes met, and the following pause, while long, was at least comfortable. 

“Yes,” Crowley replied after a moment, a smile slowly spreading across his face. “I suppose we do.” 

“If Ireland comes up again,” Aziraphale said. “There’s no need for a coin toss. I’ll go, no questions asked.” 

Crowley nodded, grateful. One of a thousand possible things could be said at this moment; Aziraphale and Crowley looked at each other, as if the decision was too great for one of them to make alone. If either of them were to define infinity, the explanation would involve two men, a plant, and this silence. Crowley took a deep breath. 

“I mis-” he began. 

“I know, Crowley,” Aziraphale said11. “Me too.” 

Crowley allowed himself to smile properly. 

“Angel,” he said; that was all he _needed_ to say. Their shoulders were still touching, the distance between them spanning galaxies, whilst also being no distance at all. 

The star moss unfurled just a little more, another impossible flower beginning to bloom. 

* * *

  1. The very idea of _not_ yelling at his plants was causing Crowley no small amount of confusion and distress. [▲] 
  2. For reasons as yet unclear to Crowley himself, he had ended up in _Ireland_ , of all places. And given his serpentine origins, nothing about the trip had sat well with him, thanks to that bastard St. Patrick. [▲]
  3. This included being named after a novel [widely believed to be a love letter](https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Orlando:_A_Biography#Inspiration) from Virginia Woolf to her lover, Vita Sackville-West. The irony of this was obviously lost on both our protagonists. [▲]
  4. As much influence as he had on the success of _Hamlet_ , he still didn’t rate it in his top 5. [▲]
  5. “I was resting my eyes”, as a phrase/lie, has been around since the dawn of time, and has been used by humans, celestials, and the occult all the same. [▲]
  6. Truth be told, he almost crashed into the doorjamb. [▲]
  7. Of course, if there _were_ an outsider in Crowley’s flat, that would have presented a whole host of other issues. Namely: how had they got in? Why didn’t they say hello? Etc. etc. [▲]
  8. And despite his occult nature, he did _try_ to be...mostly. [▲]
  9. Not even Crowley could really describe what he did as his job on Earth. However, he did it with more enthusiasm and dedication than his one in Hell, if only for the free car insurance. [▲]
  10. This could have been out of professional politeness, or just a general fear of Crowley. [▲]
  11. Aziraphale knew exactly how much to allow Crowley to say, and how much to _stop_ him from saying to allow for plausible deniability. [▲]



**Author's Note:**

> And that's all she wrote! The series is over, but I will probably be writing more other fic soon.
> 
> I would definitely like to thank Anna, who sits on Discord with me and corrects my writing so that I am both grammatically correct, and also that I'm funny <3


End file.
